


Burnt Cactus

by Bladespeaker



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: SASS-OFF TIME, all I know is that the sass exists and these two have zero impulse control, this could be the start of a crack-ship, this could be the start of something real, tw: alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-13 23:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladespeaker/pseuds/Bladespeaker
Summary: Sylfia returns to her favorite bar in Hoelbrak, only to find her seat occupied by someone who does not want to leave..





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Traveling Circus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18921094) by [Bladespeaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladespeaker/pseuds/Bladespeaker). 

Sylfia Wyldcaller didn’t have much of a home. Though born in the Grove, she couldn’t see the sprawling city as anything other than the home of her race, and kept a mental space between recognizing it as such and feeling any major attachment. For her, the lush jungle city held few comforts. That the Grove held memories of when she nearly burned to death twice certainly didn’t give her pause as she strode out the asura gate and into the wide world. 

The closest thing she had to a home in terms of a physical presence, she supposed, were the bars, especially in Hoelbrak. She braced herself as she stepped into the bracing chill of the norn capital. The gate guard knew her by name now, and she politely gave him a nod as she walked by. Even he knew where she was going by that point, and interrupting her would gain neither party anything favorable. 

“Skartji,” she barked, and threw her arms open wide as she crossed the bar’s threshold. “How’ve you been, you great greasy bear?”

“Ah, Twig,” the barrel-chested norn laughed. He nearly crushed her in his hug. “It’s good to see you again!”

She slapped his broad back and grinned up at the Bear shaman. “Looks like your bar’s still doing well,” she said. She gave an appreciative nod. “Still putting rabbits’-feet in the brew?”

The norn’s brown eyes widened in terror, and he waved his massive hands in a hushing motion. “Listen, Lila will have my head if she hears you talk of that, but,” he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “yes.”

“Skartji!” 

Both sylvari and norn leapt and turned to see his older sister glowering at them. “I thought you’d said that you’d stopped!”

The shaman stammered and stuttered for a good half-second before the woman held up a hand with a tired smile and a shake of her head.

“I know I couldn’t get you to stop putting them in there unless the Dragon itself were to eat your stock. I won’t tell,” she sighed, crossing her arms, “but I think that’s why the Lucky Brew sells so well.” She gave Sylfia a knowing wink. 

Skartji turned his thick-braided head towards the sylvari again. “Look, Twig, we’re really glad to see you, but there’s something – ”

“Ah, keep it for later. I’ll give you the gold for my tab then,” Sylfia said easily. She strode through the stained wood floor. “Now, where’s my seat?”

Despite his height, Skartji had to half-jog to keep up with the warrior. “That’s what I came to tell you, actually,” he said quickly. “There’s a bit of a – ”

Sylfia came to a screeching halt as she caught sight of her barstool. She knew it was her barstool because it still had the slightly off-kilter leg from when she had used it as a blunt weapon in a brawl. Anyone else who knew of her also knew that it was her stool, and the last person who had tried occupying it ended up with a broken nose.

“Who,” she spat, green eyes narrowing in fury, “is _that_?” 

The lichen-gray-skinned sylvari had spines running like stubble down his cheeks and chin; short thorns crowned his head for hair. He half-turned at the accusatory finger pointed in his face and raised his brows.

“I’m sorry,” came the caustic reply, “I wasn’t aware this was a _reserved_ seat. And didn’t you ever learn that it’s rude to point?”

“It bloody well is, and I don’t care.” Sylfia said. She glared at him. “Get out.”

The cactus-like sylvari’s eyes narrowed. “No; I don’t think I will.”

Sylfia stepped back and took a long breath in through her nose.

“Wyldcaller,” Skartji said hesitantly, “we could always get you a new seat…”

“Oh, no, that’s fine, no need, barkeep,” she said poisonously, glaring daggers at the incumbent. “I just need to inform this cad that he’s… mistaken. As to where he is.” She gave a smile worthy of her murderous sister. “In my seat.”

The sylvari sighed. “Look, I’m sorry that you’re obviously so attached to this particular piece of.. what is this, pine? But I’ve been here for a while now, and I have no intent to leave.” 

She could sense his impatient pride rolling from him like waves. Her jaw shifted, and her fingers curled into fists. Her eyes caught on a set of dice and an empty coin purse. A light went off in her mind. 

“All right,” she drawled, holding up her hands. “I apologize.“

He raised a mug to his lips. “Good.”

She had to quash the spike of rage that threatened to interrupt her plan. “I merely thought that a man so obviously used to betting would surely try to make some easy gold in a friendly competition of sorts. But if you’re too coward to try…” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Well. Oi’ll take my leave.” She half-turned and started walking to the door.

“Wait!”

A slow smile spread over her features. She recomposed herself and turned around casually.

“Yes?”

The spiky sylvari ran his hand down his face slowly, violet eyes narrowed in calculation as he looked suspiciously at her. “What _kind_ of bet are we making?”

“Well, that depends on if you’re really willing to pay,” she said. She casually strode to the bar and sat on a stool, leaning towards him with a smile. “I know what I want.” She pointed to the chair where he sat. “And that’ll be my wager. But what’s your gain, eh? Gold? More drinks?”

He leaned back and crossed his arms, jaw shifting in thought. “Gold,” he finally said. “This chair. And you leaving me alone.”

She leaned back in mock offense and pressed a hand over her chest. “Why, my good sir, Oi thought we were gettin’ along swimmingly.” She gave him a saccharine smile. “But now we’re making progress. Here’s my bet: I can see you’re the kind of man who’s fine with holding down a few ales. What say we see who can hold out the longest?”

Clearly, the other sylvari was new to the city and the stories it had, otherwise he would have taken his leave right then. He gave her a smirk. “Buy your own starters,” he said slowly, “and you’re on.”

“Great!” She slapped a hand on the bar and bared her teeth. “Barkeep! I’ll have whatever he’s had, and keep ‘em coming until one of us gives up!” She turned back to him. “You know,” she said casually, “Oi’ll need your name for whatever ledger one of us is gonna end up payin’. What’s it?”

He raised his chin. “Give me yours first, Fireball, and you’ll have it.”

Sylfia’s eye gave a murderous twitch as she spat it out to him. “And yours, Cactus?”

He leaned back as the barkeeper set several mugs in front of her. “Canach. May the best liver win.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sylfia awoke the next day to the warm light of the afternoon sun. The air was fresher, the birds louder, and everything was too bloody bright.

“Skartji!” she shouted, and winced at the sound of her own voice. “Where’d that bloody norn get off to?” She peeled herself off of her stonelike cot – awarded only to those brave or stupid enough to pass out at the bar – and checked her pockets. Everything was still there, which either meant that she’d been watched over, or that everyone was focused elsewhere. Already celebrations for slaying and other heroic deeds were starting up again, and her throat bobbed wistfully at the thoughts of the casks that would be broken into.

She smiled contentedly. “Ah, Canach,” she sighed, and twirled a shining gold piece through her fingers. “You poor, poor sap.” She chuckled as she tossed the coin in the air, caught it, and pocketed it. “Least he’s payin’ for this night.” Her head throbbed warningly, and she winced. “Might want to start with some water…. or greenroot tea,” she muttered. “Been a while since Oi’ve got well and truly soused…”

Her eyes bulged when she caught sight of the man at the bar. He looked significantly worse for the wear, at least from what she could recall of seeing him last, and when his eyes caught hers, they narrowed. Well. If he was stupid enough to want a rematch, she wouldn’t complain.

“‘Afternoon, Cactus,” she said casually as she slid into her rickety barstool. 

His jaw shifted as he moved the cloth-wrapped bundle of snow over his head. “You cheated.”

She held up a hand and signaled to the barkeep for an order of greenroot tea. “Did not,” she said.

“Yes, you did,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’ve got some asura alcohol-processing device in you. That’s the only reasonable explanation for how you could beat me.“ He groaned and massaged his temples. “No other way,” he said.

The warrior couldn’t keep the smug smile from her face. “Tha’ ain’t it. Been burned alive twice in my life, Oi’ll have you know. Like to think I’ve got a bit of the fire’s metabolism in me. Alcohol just burns right up.”

“Oh, quit gloating,” he said, and cracked open an eye to stare belligerently at her. “It suits you so poorly.”

“Lots of things suit me poorly,” she shrugged, “but you can’t choose your face when you’ve nearly died twice.”

Canach gave her a perplexed look, opened his mouth once, and waved off whatever he was going to say.

“Lila, thank you for the tea,” Sylfia said. She reached for it with eager hands and sighed at the grassy, spicy scent. “Had one of these yet?” she asked the spiny sylvari. She tipped her mug at him. “Best cure for a hangover Oi’ve ever had. Clears ya right out.”

He peered down his nose to stare dubiously at the murky green drink. “It looks like it’d kill you.”

She gave him a feral grin. “Feels like it, too, when you ain’t used to it. Good for colds and those days when you feel like you’ve got fog in your throat. Honestly, surprised the asura haven’t tried marketing it, but when the sap of the stuff’s poisonous without proper preparation…” she shrugged and took a gulp. “Can’t say Oi blame ‘em.”

He watched her warily as she drained the mug. “Bartender, an order of … whatever it is she’s drinking. Make it non-alcoholic, this time?”

Sylfia snorted. “It ain’t alcoholic.”

Canach grimaced and returned to nursing his head. “I can’t say I fully trust you after last night. Do they really consider you an honorary norn?”

The warrior set her mug down gently on the hardwood bar. “Mate, I’ve felt more at home here than Oi’ve ever been at the Grove.” Her smile was thin. “I think if I had the chance, I’d rather be one of them.”

His gaze did not waver as he stared. “Tired of the expectations?”

“Memories. Home doesn’t feel safe when that air’s all you can remember before the world goes up in smoke.” She blinked and furrowed her brow with a shake of her head. “Must still be hung over,” she said with a dry laugh. “Sorry.”

He gave a long, low hum. “Well, if you feel so bad, Fireball,” he said casually, “you could always take a bet on my side.”

Sylfia squinted an eye shut. “Come again?”

He smiled smoothly. “You said it yourself. I’m a betting man. My honor’s a bit sore from the thrashing you gave it last night, so I’m asking if you’ll give me a chance to play on my grounds and earn it back.” He pulled a set of cards from his pack. They were ornately-illustrated and smelled lightly of machine oil. “This is a game called Sandstorm. You bet how much you can win, and if your hand’s higher than mine, you keep your earnings. Go over a certain limit, though, and it all comes back to me.”

She half-turned in her barstool and set an arm on the counter. “All right, fine; you’re betting your honor. What do I get?”

He shrugged. “More bragging rights? The last scraps of my gold?”

She hummed. “How’s about you don’t call me ‘Fireball’ anymore if I win?”

It was his time to give her a confident smile. “You’re on. I’ll deal.”


End file.
